


Not What It Says on the Tin

by Benedicthiddleston



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Scientist, Fix-It chapter 2, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Odd Missions Gone Wrong, Set post-season 3 but ignores the season finale, Torture, evil scientist, hurt with little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-07 14:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benedicthiddleston/pseuds/Benedicthiddleston
Summary: Mac's nightmares are more than just nightmares.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic Depictions of Torture and gruesome death. However, no permanent deaths. This gets heavy quick.

He was trembling.

In any other instance, he would have been stoic. He didn’t show unnecessary emotion. A life of verbal and mental abuse, three years in the Army, and many missions as a covert spy hardened his appearance, fine-tuning his facial expressions and having the ability to fool even the most seasoned of interrogators.

But that was before he watched these – these _terrorists_ break every single finger and toe of his best friend, cruelly remove both earlobes, pluck out his right eye, and then –

Angus MacGyver swore the sight of so much blood had been the worst part. Not Bozer’s last look of grief wrapped up in excruciating pain and determined anger. Not even his best friend’s last words. _Not your fault, Mac. Love you_.

Even in his childhood best friend’s last possible moments of life, Wilt Bozer had been steadfast in his belief that Mac was not to blame for their capture, torture, and subsequent executions. A world filled with greed, power, and lust for blood ruled over them. Nothing in their arsenal as seasoned government agents could have stopped the events that unfolded in such perfect clarity – mostly in hindsight – that not only was Desiree Nguyen dead before the first shout, but their capture had been almost laugh-worthy.

That had been six days ago. Desi had given her life to try to stop a bullet from ripping through Mac’s chest. Instead, another bullet had slammed into his right shoulder, the sniper popping off the third round in quick succession that went into Bozer’s left thigh. Black-clad individuals scooped them up from their hiding spot and drugged them before shoving them into a light-less van.

Both had woken up to find themselves in an underground bunker in an undisclosed location. They wouldn’t see daylight for those six days.

The light was blinding.

But that isn’t what made Mac tremble.

The noose around his neck, the thick rope cutting into wounded wrists from hours of fruitless struggle, and the face of the one person he trusted more than anyone else in the world flickering in and out of his vision – Mac was certain he was going to be sick. _Jack can’t be here. No, please, no._

Foreign words drifted on the wind. The sand all around them was whispering sweet nothings to Mac’s bloody and tired body. They had done surprisingly little damage to his person – the gunshot wound, expertly bandaged, and a broken wrist. Part of the blood splatter was his, from a leaking bloody nose and the bullet hole. But most of it was from – he couldn’t bring himself to think about it, lest he vomits all over the wooden scaffolding.

Mac wasn’t sure Jack was even there, supposedly standing about thirty feet from the hangman’s noose, head tilted in a thinking pose, eyes narrowed in contemplation, lips in a permanent frown. Either Jack was there, or he wasn’t – Mac couldn’t make himself speak up long enough to inquire. If Jack was there, he was doing nothing to stop the execution about to occur. And if Jack wasn’t there, if he was just a mirage conjured up by Mac’s fuzzy brain about five minutes away from asphyxiation, then Mac had a few choice words for his subconscious.

Someone tightened the noose and finally spoke in a language Mac could understand. “Last words?”

The same broken English from the same voice that had asked the same of Bozer before cruelly severing his head from the rest of his body. Most of his best friend’s blood still covered Mac, dry from the hot afternoon sun in a harsh desert climate.

The not-Jack shifted in the sand, arms crossing over a broad chest. Mac could never believe it was actually Jack – the Jack he knew would never have let Desi or Bozer die. And there was no way Jack was going to stand there and watch Mac struggle for air with a noose around his neck.

Mac had calculated the height of the scaffolding, the lack of a trap door, the rickety stool they forced him to stand on, and the length of the rope as he walked slowly up the steps with little purpose but to annoy his executioners. There was no way the short drop off the stool would break his neck. They had always planned on making him suffer at the end. As if watching your best friend be tortured and executed, his blood across your tattered black dress shirt and pale blue jeans, wasn’t enough suffering for the broken weariness in Mac’s heart.   

There was nothing to say – not even to the mirage of Jack in Mac’s blurred eyesight. He shook his head, trying to raise his head in defiance. If he did nothing else in his last moments of life, then he would go out without fear. Death did not scare him. A life without his best friend, a life without his _family_ , was far worse. The terrorists could cut him loose now, and Mac would probably just end it all with a knife sometime down the road. Unfortunately, they had taken his Swiss Army Knife six days ago, and Mac was pretty sure he was never gonna see that beautiful object ever again.

Rough fabric slipped across his face, blocking out the sun, the last images of the world dimming in his mind. He felt more than heard the foot against the edge of the stool. A video camera had captured the sickening moment they had swung the sword on Bozer. Mac figured that the same camera was pointing at him right now.

Somewhere on the wind, Mac heard a shrill cry.

_You can kill my friends. You can even kill me. But you can’t have my fucking soul._

“Fuck. You.”

\--

The scientist scratched his week-old beard. He had been trying for so long to perfect the memory scrambler. Except, in this particular subject, it was more of a nightmare scrambler. The images being broadcast on the screen were horror stories. Death and destruction, pain, and remorse.

Who had they stumbled upon?

The subject was strapped to the metal table, hands shaking in their bonds, eyes half open as they twitched. Unfortunately, the memory scrambler was also causing repetitive seizures. Which intensified the nightmares and the gruesome pictures flickering across the television screen.

Turning back towards the device, the scientist punched a couple of buttons, twisted a knob, and waited for any changes in the subject. The nightmarish images slowed before stuttering to a stop. The twitching of both light blue eyes stopped, and the body seemed to sag in its restraints. No sigh came from the subject – he’d not only been sedated heavily, but a bite block placed for protection.

Another turn of the knob and new images appeared on the screen.

A resilient hand wrapped around his throat and shoved him across the room, his feet failing to gripe the ground, his head smashing into a wall. Piercing brown eyes stared angrily at him, words coming out in frustrated French.

"Chien impitoyable, éloigne-toi de lui!” (You ruthless dog - get away from him!)

“Wait, now,” the scientist gasped out, trying to get the man to back down. “If you unhook him improperly, you’ll harm him.”

A snarl followed by a hard hand against his right cheek and a sickening crunch of knuckles on the wall beside him told him all he needed to know – he had angered this man.

“Then unhook him _properly_.” Finally, actual English. “He is not your goldfish to play with, HE’S MY PARTNER! MY BROTHER. MY FAMILY!”

The scientist showed no fear, the resilient hands dragging him back over to the device.

“Unhook him, NOW!”

A smile curled on his face, hands hovering by the knobs. The images on the screen showed a little blonde-haired boy sitting on the steps of a home, an older gentleman sitting beside him. A well-used red Swiss Army Knife was in the boy’s hand, given to him by the older gentleman. This image had been processed before – and watching it carefully now, little details had changed with sequences out of order. Scrambled, just as the device was meant to accomplish. The scientist had completed his work – the blue-eyed man, about age twenty-eight, would never have normal memories ever again.

He started to laugh, forgetting about the angry visitor beside him.

A roar and another punch, this time squarely to his gut. The scientist doubled over, gasping for air. There was a deafening screech as fists hit the device and it split into multiple pieces, the electronics spitting sparks.

A scream was ripped from the subject’s throat, one of gut-wrenching pain. While the memory scrambler was still processing brain synapses and critical functions at the time of destruction, it short-circuited the delicate balance of brain waves and set off a fiery path of signals down every nerve in the subject’s body. Insurmountable pain that could not be dulled by the sedative.

A sob escaped the visitor, his hands making quick work of the electrodes and wires plastered across the subject’s head, restraints circling wrists and ankles untied in an instant. Strong arms cradled an over shocked body, the subject gasping reflexively and then every muscle and limb went limp.

“MAC!!!!”

The scientist didn’t see the foot until it was too late. He was thrown from the known world. _Fuck you_ echoed in his mind before everything went dark.

Jack was hyperventilating, focus turned back on his wrecked brother. Trembling fingers tried to feel for a pulse, his eyes searching Mac’s lax face for any sign of life. His chest didn’t move – neither did his heart.

Another sob escaped as he gently laid Mac on the table and started chest compressions. “Don’t leave me now, Angus. Don’t you dare leave me now!”

Nearby scrambling feet were distant in Jack’s focus to bring his partner back to life. It was all he could do not to break down as he pushed and pushed and pushed and prayed and breathed into Mac’s unyielding chest. More pushing. More breathing. _Come on, Mac. I need you. I NEED YOU!_

After the initial five rounds, Jack felt for a pulse, praying hard.

Weak, thready, and impossibly _real_.

 


	2. Remember Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack anticipates Mac's return to the world of the living.

It was a big day.

Jack strode down the hallway, determination on his face. He had just come from the eighth interrogation with disgraced Dr. Victor Hornbee, the scientist responsible for the now-destroyed memory scrambler and the consequential torture of multiple government agents across the world – including Agent Angus Jackson MacGyver.

Phoenix Medical was quiet that early evening, a nurse silently exiting a room of a more stable patient who had been out in the field two days ago. The nurse nodded at Jack as he kept down the hallway, his destination up one more floor – to the secure medical wing.

Mac never regained consciousness when Jack finally got his partner’s heart to restart. With no spontaneous breaths, Jack was forced to let the emergency medical technicians intubate and rush his kid off for stabilization. His neurological status was utterly fucked up since that day, forcing the chief medical officer to keep Angus away from the general intensive care and prying eyes, inducing a medically mandated coma.

For seventeen days, five hours, and fifteen minutes, Jack split his time between holding vigil at his best friend’s side and grilling the asshole who had done terrible things to Mac’s brain. The extent of the damage – it was still unknown.

Until today.

The medically-induced coma had been lifted ten hours prior, at about eight that morning. Dr. Lawrence did not expect his patient to wake up any time soon after stopping the medication. But as Mac’s own brain and consciousness were given a chance to work on its own, the truth of his condition would be made known. Nursing staff completed neurological assessments every hour, documenting the small changes that Angus portrayed as his brain picked up the pieces.

Scans over the past seventeen-day period showed different and mesmerizing changes in Mac’s brain. The healing process was slow but believed to be occurring. Mac’s brainstem had been spared any significant damage, evidenced by his restored ability to breathe on his own as the effects of the induced coma faded into the past. By hour six, the breathing tube was removed. By hour eight, there was noticeable eye movement, and the EEG showed increased waveform activity.

The problem that they all still faced was not knowing what memories Mac retained after the scrambler broke many memory connections. At least, that’s what Dr. Hornbee proclaimed had happened – the scrambler broke nerve connections while memories were brought up in the subject’s mind, and memories were distorted, destroyed, or fundamentally changed. Jack had screamed in rage during the first interrogation with the man, wondering how they had entered the _Star Trek_ age with little warning. The anger was also probably because Dr. Hornbee had been smirking the entire time, asking about his subject non-stop.

Jack might have broken a few of the man’s ribs. Wanted to damage the man’s jaw beyond repair, but Matty had yelled at him that they needed every piece of vital information the disgraced doctor could give them _to save Mac!_

Now it looked like Mac might actually wake up soon. Jack had received the call thirty minutes before and made his way out of the War Room and straight for Phoenix Medical. He would be at his brother’s side as he came back into the world of the living.

However, there was deep fear hidden in Jack’s thoughts. He knew that Mac would not be the same. What would Mac remember, if anything? Jack only had a glimpse of the screen when he’d rescued his partner from that madman. It had been a memory of his grandfather and him – when Mac had received his very first Swiss Army Knife. If that memory had been altered, what was to say Mac remembered his childhood? His father, drifting in and out of his life until finally leaving at age ten, returning a year and a half ago as their damn boss? Would Mac remember his mother was dead? What about his first encounter with Bozer, Frankie, Carlos, Pena, Charlie, Jack, Thornton, Nikki, Riley, Murdoc, Matty, Jill – everyone that had meant something (good or bad) to Mac over his young but boisterous life? Would Mac remember being a government agent?

Jack couldn’t dwell on that fear. He had to be support for whatever condition Mac woke up in – whether he remembered his best friend, his partner, his – _brother_.

The concrete steps were familiar as he took them two at a time, finally reaching the landing of the third-floor secure wing at Phoenix Medical. He punched in a ten-digit code, swiped a visitor’s badge, and stepped into the hallway. The nurse’s station was right across from the stairwell, Victoria standing and smiling as she saw him approach.

“Good evening, Jack. He’s showing good progress. Maybe in the next hour, he’ll open those baby blues for us. Feel free to head in there. Bozer’s been holding down the fort, reading from the book you started two days ago.”

Jack nodded, daring not to speak lest he breaks. There were four rooms on this floor, specifically for special cases. Mac was the only patient tonight, a previous occupant moved to a regular room downstairs two days ago. That’s when Jack had started reading out loud a childhood favorite of Mac’s – Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It was that or one of the Star Wars books, and Jack hadn’t been able to find any of Mac’s copies.

Bozer’s energetic voice drifted into the hall through the crack in the sliding glass door. Jack slowed, hand coming to rest on the anti-microbial handle, eyes just resting on his best friend for a moment.

The last time Jack had seen his partner, about eleven hours ago, Mac had still been intubated and multiple wires and tubes protruding from under the blankets. The cardiac wires were still there, tracing the electrical pattern of his still-beating heart. The IV pole was down to two tubes, one with a morphine drip and another with necessary hydration. The familiar feeding pump was still there, providing nutrition through the glaring NG tube when Mac could not feed himself. Jack had the feeling that would be out within the next twenty-four hours if Mac was still anything like his old self.

But that was _if_ Mac was still anything like his old self. And the moment of truth was coming – just not fast enough.

Bozer read a couple more lines with passion before thumbing the corner and setting the book aside, his smile turned on Jack’s hesitating form.

“Come on in, man! I was getting tired of reading anyway.” He chuckled to himself, a protective hand on one of Mac’s still ones.

Jack nodded, slipping into the room. He left the door open a crack – not that nursing didn’t have eyes, ears, and all sorts of technology in place to know precisely when Mac would open his eyes and start to speak. Well, _if_ …

Mac took measured breaths, the tube gone, his face finally free of equipment meant to stabilize the tube that had provided him precious oxygen and the correct number of breaths when he couldn’t. This wasn’t Mac’s first time on a ventilator, but Jack always felt immense relief when his kid was no longer hooked up to that machine. It meant things were looking _up_.

“They say it should be soon. His brain has all the right activity for it.”

Another monitor traced Mac’s brain patterns, electrodes and wires similar to what Jack had ripped off his partner seventeen days ago. But these ones weren’t trying to harm his brother – they were just keeping a careful watch on how his brain was functioning. Still, the apprehension was always simmering underneath, Jack afraid that shitty scientist will escape and come back to finish the job.

He eased into the seat beside Bozer, reaching out a hand and squeezing Mac’s leg. “Hey, man. Good to see you looking a little more normal without that tube anymore.”

Bozer shrugged at Jack’s piercing gaze. “He hasn’t really made any noises yet. Maybe he just wants to sleep?”

There was a spike on the EEG monitor, and both Bozer and Jack watched as Mac made the first attempt to come back to the land of the living. Blue eyes flickered open, taking in unfamiliar surroundings. They hovered on the glass door, moved to the olive-green walls, and landed on the two visitors in the room.

Bozer was the first to speak, his hand still clutching Mac’s. “Hey, man.”

Jack raised a hand, resting it on the side rail. “Do you – remember who you are?” There were no promises Mac remembered who he was, let alone who they were. The most advanced technology had already confirmed he could hear and process what he heard. His responses would be the focus.  

Blue eyes gazed intently, first at Bozer, then Jack. He swallowed, mouth dry, as he slowly nodded. Somehow, instinctively, with how sore his throat was feeling, he knew speaking would be hard, so his mouthed two life-confirming words.

_Angus. MacGyver_.

Bozer wanted to laugh with happiness, a grin spreading across his face. “Thank _god_. Do you – remember us?”

Mac’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes turning back to the glass door. He looked – confused.

_Not a good sign_ , Jack sighed in his mind. _Fuck that memory scrambler. Fuck it!!!_ But Jack couldn’t lose his cool. Not in front of Mac. At least he knew who he was. That was half the battle.

“It’s okay if you don’t. You’ve had quite the ordeal.”

Mac absently pulled his hand from Bozer’s, coordination weak and unsteady, but he managed to bring both of his hands into his lap, baby blue eyes drifting away from his two visitors. He worried his lips like he was thinking deeply, trying to access memories hidden behind the conscious world.

_He can’t remember who we are because his memories are all fucked up. That must be it. We must still be in there – right?_

Sighing, Mac turned his gaze back to Jack and Bozer, the worried lines on his face smoothing out into a more relaxed position.

“School,” he managed to get out past weak and rusty vocal cords, eyes first on Bozer, then to Jack. “Desert.”

Both Bozer and Jack shared a glance, momentarily confused.

_School? What is he talking about? Desert? But we aren’t –_ Jack’s face lit up, trying very hard to contain his excitement. “You do remember us, don’t you?”

Mac nodded. “Memories. Out of order.” It was whispered. But somehow, he knew the people sitting next to him, even if right then he couldn’t remember their names. He had an image of meeting the black man in a school building, and the older man in a hot, windy climate filled with brown sand and one too many explosives.

It would be a long road to recovery – piecing together the correct memories in the right order with the help of his family and friends, mementos and pictures and retellings. Mac would struggle, forgetting names and places and even facts. His brain would never be quite the same ever again, which meant he never got back into the field as a covert government agent. But he was loved and lived a happy life, surrounded by a strong and wonderful support group.

Wilt Bozer.

Jack Dalton.

Riley Davis.

Desiree Nguyen.

Matilda Webber.

James MacGyver.

Charlie Robinson.

Carlos and his family.

Frankie.

And everyone else in-between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided this is after Desi comes to the team, but the season three finale never occurred, because Charlie is MY FAVORITE SUPPORTING CHARACTER! Jack has returned (obviously). Charlie lives. Jill, unfortunately, only gets mentioned because she was a part of Mac's life, but she still died long before this.
> 
> So, um, did that satisfy? No? Well, that's the end. Not the happiest of endings, but a fix-it?! 
> 
> You guys are awesome, thank you for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarks, and comments!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I just wrote. I've been contemplating a fic where Mac encounters the noose (thank you Son of the South for those glorious thoughts), but this wasn't what I expected. I'll probably do another noose fic sometime (tell that to my school work and Burn the Ships, gah). 
> 
> Also, the first part is a nightmare. Bozer IS NOT DEAD. And now neither is Mac!
> 
> If you reached the end, thank you. Any kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc. are never expected but truly appreciated!! Love, Danielle


End file.
